You are not alone anymore.
The moon-unlit darkness around you is not cloying now, in the way it has always been. You can see flickers, flashes of color in the air as you prowl through the endless shadowed spires of The Sharp Lady’s manor. Someone new has come to your hunting grounds, and you hiss, uncertain of what that means. (Sometimes, it means you will be forgotten for— weeks, months; it could be years and you would never know, for The Sharp Lady’s manor is unchanging. Sometimes it simply means you have prey. You like those times far more.)
Old bells ring dull in the air, and your ears prick. You look to the church tower, where the bells swing leaden in the air, the shape of their sound almost visible through the fog. You spread shale-studded wings and flap once, twice, three times before rising into the air, heavy as the rain starting to fall, coating the manor in a third pall. The bells summon you, inevitable, to your Lady’s hall.
Her calls come erratically. You never try to expect them. (You saw someone who tried, once. He did not last long, before she methodically butchered him, taking care to allow him to live until she finally ripped out his heart. He fed the shrikes and their bloodberry bushes for a full week.) You simply come as quickly as your thick wings allow, gliding through the open stained glass window that you see only as luminous shades of gray.
The Sharp Lady is made of thorns and coiled faux-iron spires, facsimiles of what you think fences looked like, what you think you once pushed open and followed on a full-moon night through thicket and tangle and which tore your name away. She stands, splinter-glass eyes shining, in the flickering light of her many hooded lanterns. There is something—someone—else kneeling at her feet, multicolored fire groomed into the shape of a girl.
You can see the colors of her flames. (Cinnabar, carmine, coral, cream.) You see them reflected in The Sharp Lady’s eyes and in the spun-silver chain wrapped around the new flame’s throat and held in The Sharp Lady’s hand.
You see this, and you look away.
You kneel.
You bow.
The Sharp Lady tells you, knife-voice tearing at your ears, that you are to guide the new one (She does not grant even the barest humanity of a use-title; simply a label) to the dormitories.
(Left unspoken, unneeded, is that you are to ensure that she does not try to escape.)
You do not say anything. You simply bow again, deeper, and wait. There is a chiming clatter: The chain, now coiled on the floor as The Sharp Lady leaves. You hear the flame whimper, and you do not allow yourself to react. You do not dare move until you are sure The Sharp Lady no longer looks upon you, unless you too wish to feed Her shrikes. You wait, counting heartbeats, counting breaths, until you have reached one hundred.
When you look up, the flame is curled, miserable, next to the chain that will not move at her touch. You do not sympathise. You cannot; to sympathise is to die. You do not look at her as you take the chain. It burns cold, even against your stone calluses, and you do not flinch. That reflex was burned out of you long ago, for you did not wish to die.
“Come,” you say, and your voice cracks and rumbles, caught in your throat. You have not spoken save to the rooks that roost with you, not in a long time, and they care only for croaks.
“Please,” she whispers, and her voice tries to catch at your ears, but fire cannot feed on stone. “Please, I did not—”
You close your eyes and begin to walk. “We never do.”
She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t move with you until she realises that if she does not, you will drag her across the broken flagstones. Then, she begins to trudge behind you, and each step hisses and smokes as dust and splinters ignite beneath her.
You lead her through the endless twisting passages, letting instinct alone guide you through the doors. They all look alike; black wood half-broken by time, and intricate silver-gilt doorknobs and hinges tarnished black by the idea of use. The corridors hold oil paintings of people whose faces are there until you look straight on, and then all that remains is something broken, twisted, and screaming. You try not to look at them, instead focusing on the candelabras, tables, and rugs that you have never seen try to eat something which stared too long.
When you reach the dormitory, it is empty. (It always is, except when The Sharp Lady finds new prey.) You lead the flame inside, and shut the door. You place the chain on a hook meant for it, and sit on a chair. The flame perches, uneasy, on a bed. It smokes, but doesn’t burn. “What’s going on?” she asks, embers flying from her and betraying her nerves, if her voice’s pitch wasn’t enough. “I thought— You are like me, are you not?”
You look at her, and you cannot help the pity this time. They are always so young, when The Sharp Lady brings them. You say, as gently as your ruined voice can manage, “Perhaps. Once.”
She swallows, and her fire dims. It’s a shame; you quite enjoy the bloody light she casts. She looks at you, and whispers, “What happens now?”
You smile, but it does not reassure her. She shrinks from you, banking her flames instinctively as she sees the sharpness of your teeth. “That depends,” you tell her, your stone feathers grating against each other as you begin to prowl around her. “Are you a pet, or are you prey? I never know until I’m asked to hunt you down.”
She stares at you and her eyes are blue, now, a color that you want to swallow. She licks her lips (the true scarlet of heartsblood) and says, “Are— Are pets beloved?”
You reach out with one taloned hand and stroke her shoulder. “We can be. You must follow the rules, if you are to be kept.”
“Would I become like you?”
You laugh, and it is the sound of a broken gutter gurgling. “Yes.”
She closes her eyes. “Teach me,” she says at last, and her fire laps at you.
You lean towards her warmth (so rare, so fleeting) and press your lips to her cheek. She shudders, but doesn’t back away. “Good,” you tell her, and you mean it; so few manage even that much, the first time. “That is your first lesson: Never show your fear. Our Sharp Lady does not care for it.”
“Is that—”
“Your second lesson,” you cut her off to say, pressing your hand against her mouth to seal it. “The Sharp Lady is The Sharp Lady, and there is no other name I have heard which is acceptable.”
She nods, and you remove her hand. She meets your eyes. “And the punishment?”
“You will die,” you say, simply. “And The Sharp Lady will feed you to the birds. You saw them, as you entered?”
She nods again.
You stroke her hair, letting the tendrils of her fire wrap around your fingers. “You have so much potential,” you murmur, and your voice is at last growing almost smooth, though it will never stop being gravel. “I hope you learn quickly and well.”
She leans against you, and—proving your words—says nothing at all.